Counting Stars
by Riveting Red Pants
Summary: When Sherlock "comes back from the dead" he is expecting things to pick up right where they left off. He doesn't even think for a moment that John might have moved on, that nothing will be the same, that what he was fighting for for 3 years might be a bit of a lost cause.


_Everything that kills me makes me feel alive_

_Lately I've been I've been losing sleep_

_Dreaming about the things that we could be_

_Lately I've been I've been praying hard_

_No more counting dollars we'll be counting stars_

Sherlock breezed into the flat and John jumped a little, still very unused to seeing the detective's willowy form. Sherlock acted like he didn't notice, but John knew he did. The corners of his mouth turned down ever so slightly, his eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch, and his eyes flashed absolute defeat for the briefest of seconds. John stood there and tried to take a deep breath to relax, breathing in the tea and chemical smell of 221B Baker Street. It wasn't his fault. He was trying to get used to this, but it's not every day your best mate comes back from the dead.

When Sherlock had come back John had nearly had a heart attack. He punched Sherlock in the face for letting John think he was dead for three years, and then he tackled Sherlock into a hug. He probably held on too long but Sherlock, for once, didn't seem to mind. He squeezed John just as tightly as John clung to him, and the two men stood there, once again wrapped in the embrace they had both been craving so long. John pulled Sherlock into Speedy's downstairs and had a long discussion with him. Sherlock explained why he had jumped, how he had done it to protect John, and how he had spent the past three years incognito traveling the globe taking down Morjiarty's web, all to save John.

"So . . . how have you been?" Sherlock asked, reluctantly, fearing the worst but hoping for the best. John took a deep breath. _Well I spent a year in suicide watch from the yard under Lestrade's orders, and am still in constant therapy. I cried-no, sobbed over your death for a year and a half almost without break. The world got darker. I wanted to kill myself . . . but I was prevented from it several times by Lestrade and Harry. . ._

"Good . . . it's been . . . I've been good." Sherlock knew John was lying. Lestrade had told him all about the past three years. Sherlock had been out trying to save John from the rest of the world, he had almost completely forgotten about saving John from himself. "I met someone." Sherlock couldn't contain his eye roll.

"How many boring girlfriends did I miss?" John fixed him with a glare.

"None actually. Mary's . . . she's more than my girlfriend." Now Sherlock was intrigued.

"How so?"

"We're engaged to be married in a month." Sherlock felt as if something had knocked the wind out of him. In his mind his whole world reeled and toppled around, but outwardly he was ice.

"Oh. I see." John nodded.

"I'm moving out of 221B Baker Street. . ."

"Right as I'm moving back in."

"You're moving back in?"

"Well of course I'm moving back in. I expected . . . never mind."

"You expected the whole world to pause while you were gallivanting around doing God knows what for three years, and then resume again when you returned?"

"Of course I wasn't expecting that."

"Yeah you were." John shook his head, getting slightly annoyed now. "Unbelievable."

"As I said I was saving your life."

"Thanks for that, by the way. And thanks for the years of mental trauma it caused me." John knew he shouldn't have said the last bit, but it slipped out. He couldn't help it. He turned his head and put a fist up to his mouth.

"John-,"

"Can we not do this?"

"John I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you. . ."

"Sherlock-,"

"I only wanted to help you. You're my . . ." Sherlock seemed to scan the room to see if anyone else in the diner was listening. "You're my closest friend. I couldn't let you be harmed."

"Well I was." John turned to face Sherlock. "You can move back into the flat, but I'll be leaving shortly. And I don't want to talk about this . . . subject anymore. All that's behind us now." Sherlock smiled.

"So everything will be as it was?" John swore he could just slap him.

"No." John got up and walked away, to go prepare Mrs. Hudson for the shock of seeing Sherlock again, leaving a deflated Sherlock sitting in a booth alone, staring down at the table in defeat.

The next month was very odd. John had gotten used to living a seemingly normal life again, and then Sherlock came back like a whirlwind. John was past the days of cases and murders and running down the streets of London searching for gunmen. John was a Doctor. He had a real job now. So when he went to work the next day, he was expecting the day to be normal. Of course Sherlock couldn't have that.

"John!" Sherlock almost seemed to demand as he ran down the hallway at the hospital.

"Dear God." John groaned to no one in particular.

"John there's a case!" Sherlock gasped breathless from running.

"Sherlock I'm at work!"

"But . . . but a case John! I need you! There's been-,"

"A huge car accident, four cars involved, no one knows who caused it, and the child from one of the cars is missing?" Sherlock stopped short.

"How did you know that? Have your powers of deduction gotten better? How could you have-,"

"I'm working in the ER with the families right now. And their lives are more important to me because it is my job to maintain them."

"So the child doesn't matter to you? Someone's obviously taken her, you can tell by the dye in the mother's hair!" John stared at Sherlock, his mouth agape.

"How . . . never mind. No, of course the child is important to me. But right now I am getting paid to help the others involved. You can manage without me."

"You really won't come will you?"

"No."

"Don't you miss it?" Sherlock tried his best to keep his sadness out of his voice, but it couldn't seem to be done.  
"Not really."

" . . . Oh. Well. I'll just leave you to your . . . work . . . sorry to have bothered you." John shook his head at Sherlock's back as he walked away, coat flapping, and head down.

After that Sherlock largely left John alone. John solved no more cases with Sherlock; the month went by almost peacefully. As peaceful as Sherlock gets. Only two minor fires in the flat. John still jumped a bit when he saw Sherlock sometimes, but he got better about it. Sherlock seemed distant, colder, as if he was trying to manipulate John into having everything the way it was. As the end of the month drew nearer, and John started to pack up his things, Sherlock got more insistent that John go on at least one more case with him.

"Please John! As a parting gift to me! I really need your help on this case! I can't do it without you!"

"Yes you can!"

"John there are lives at stake!" John stopped and sighed.

"Just this once Sherlock." It was a hell of a case. It took them all weekend to crack. There was running, shots fired at them, hostage situations, and explosions in the form of stuffed rabbits with bombs inside, the usual. And John was reminded again of how much he loved the adrenaline, the overwhelming feeling of helping people, even more so than he did on his day to day, and the satisfaction that came right after the case was solved. Sherlock and John were walking home, grinning from ear to ear and laughing.

"That was brilliant how you could tell from the color of the stitching which stuffed animal had the bomb." Sherlock grinned.

"You think so? It was all a matter of deduction really, you see certain companies in China use-,"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I don't much care. I just thought it was good." Sherlock laughed, and then John laughed. They entered the flat and stood in the doorway for a minute, just smiling at each other.

"I've missed this." Sherlock said softly, his smile starting to fade now. "You'd be lying if you said you didn't either." John nodded.

"I have missed this . . . but it was a good last case." John said, afraid of what was coming next.

"Does it have to be the last? We do work so much better as a team . . ."

"Yes Sherlock. That was the last. Mary would kill me if she knew-,"

"Who cares what Marry thinks?"

"I do! She's soon to be my wife!"

"And why is that John?" Sherlock said, stepping closer to John. "Does she make you feel more secure? Does she fill the hole that I left behind? Because I'm back now. So there's no need for that."

"What are you talking about? What hole?"

"John I . . ." and without thinking, Sherlock crashed his lips down onto John's. John stood there for a second shocked, and then Sherlock's hands were on his face, and his lips felt so good, Sherlock was pressing his body up against John's, and John up against the wall. John didn't even consciously think, he just kissed back. Sherlock pulled away to breathe, and smiled a little, his eyes closed. John reached up and brushed along Sherlock's cheekbone with his thumb. "Don't leave me John. Not when we could be so much more." For a moment John lost his will to speak. He couldn't even think about what to say next. This was wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. John shouldn't be kissing someone when he was due to be married in two weeks. He shouldn't be kissing Sherlock, of all people.

"How long?" Sherlock's eyes snapped open, the intense pale blue green inches away from John's own.

"How long what?"

"How long have you . . ." John cleared his throat, "Felt this way?"

"From the start."

"And you're choosing now to tell me?" John asked, trying not to yell.

"John I wanted to tell you all along, but I didn't think you would return my sentiments, so I kept quiet. And then when your life was on the line, and I was standing on that rooftop, all I could think of was how if you died, I would too. How I couldn't live in a world without you in it. And I knew then that my number one goal was always going to be to save you. You mean the world to me John." John was silent, staring off into somewhere behind Sherlock. "For God's sake John, say something!"

"Sherlock if you had come to me three years ago . . ." John took a steadying breath. "If you had come to me three years ago and told me this, I would've run away with you. I would've been yours, and I would've never left your side. You can be a prick . . . and I _do_ love you . . ."

"But?"

"But I love Mary. And I'm going to marry her and move out and not go on anymore cases." John put a hand to Sherlock's cheek. "I am sorry . . ." Sherlock jerked away.

"Don't be. I understand completely." And without another word he ran up the stairs to the flat and then into his room, closing the door behind him.

John moved out, taking his things with him. Sherlock sat in his chair, looking at the spot where John's chair used to be. He didn't eat or sleep or move for a very long time, what seemed like forever. All he could think of was that someone had lit a bright light in his life, and now that light was taken from him. He sat alone in the darkness, awaiting a return that would never come.


End file.
